The Insider
by Beatrice29
Summary: Katherine Elizabeth von Walderberg was the ideal Social. She was rich, pretty, talented and hated Greasers. But just because she was a Social, that didn't mean her life was perfect, like people thought it was. After all, Socs have problems too.


If I said my life was perfect, I would be lying. If I said my childhood was happy, warm, and safe, I would be lying again. But then again, who in the world ever had a perfect life?

I guess the best place to start was my junior year at Will Rogers High School. That was one of the best and worst years of my life.

At the end of my sophomore year at Ridgefield High School in California, my mother dumped me to live with her older brother Paul Holden Sr. in their boring hometown, Tulsa, Oklahoma. I never knew the real reason why my mother left me on my Uncle's doorsteps. Was it so I could win the title of Miss Teenage Tulsa like she did three times in a row? Was it because she couldn't be bothered to take care of me? Or was it because she thought that it would be safer for me to be away from her? In the end I guess I'll never know.

It was 1964 and I had turned sixteen recently. I was pretty, popular, and my life was good for most of the time. It was truly 'sweet sixteen'.

Back when I was sixteen, my name was Katherine Elizabeth Von Walderberg.

My name is Elizabeth Whitmore, and this is my story.

* * *

><p>"Katie, Randy's here!"<p>

"I'm coming!" I yelled, from my bedroom. I went over to my window and sure enough, there was Randy with his blue mustang parked in front of the front lawn. I quickly grabbed my bag and dashed out of my room, slamming the door behind me and ran down the stairs.

"Bye mom!" I yelled quickly as I struggled to put my flats on.

"Katherine Elizabeth Von Walderberg! How many times do I have to tell you not to run!" I heard my aunt's voice scold as she came closer.

"Bye!" I yelled again, as I dashed out of the house, ignoring my aunt's desperate attempts of calling me back.

I ran down the pathway going through my front lawn and jump into my Randy's arms. His lips met mine and I swear, I practically melted on the spot every time his lips met mine. When we pulled away, I smiled at him adoringly.

"New record. It took you a minute to get here," he teased. I rolled my eyes and smacked his shoulder playfully.

"Meanie," I pouted. "It's not my fault my aunt's a perfectionist!"

"Seems to run in the family," Randy muttered. I smacked him again and he laughed. He was the perfect boyfriend, unlike my first one. Randy was everything I dreamed in a boyfriend. He was kind, caring, popular, handsome, smart, and he didn't push me out of my comfort zone when he was sober.

"Stu's throwing a party down at the riverbeds again this Friday. Wanna come with me?"

"Hm… Well…that depends…" I drawled. "I don't think you want to go out with a girl who takes a million years to get ready…"

Randy narrowed his eyes down at me and I laughed. "Of course I'll go with you silly!" I leaned in to peck his lips again before sitting on the passenger seat of his blue mustang. Normally I drove my turquoise 1964 Cadillac Coupe DeVille all around town, especially school, where I could show off my flashy car to those who weren't as lucky as me but since Mrs Adderson and my aunt expected us to be attached to the hip he drove me to school everyday.

"So, how's Max?" I asked to start a conversation.

"I swear sometimes you care more about my brother than me," Randy sighed, shaking his head while smiling at me. I laughed at his response on pecked his cheek.

"Well I do love you Randy," I said slowly. "But I think your brother's just a tad cuter than you!" I teased. Randy rolled his eyes and I laughed again.

He started his mustang and we drove off to Will Rogers High. Since we lived on the West side of town, all the houses were pretty and well kept. I waved to a few familiar faces, like Mrs Olsen and her granddaughter Viola, Miss Francine tending her flowers, and Mr and Mrs Gates sitting on their front porch pleasantly. All of the people on the West Side were polite and kind.

On the way, it was the usual conversations. We talked, joked, laugh, he teased me and I would tease him back until we finally got to our destination. Will Rogers High School.

Will Rogers. What could I say about that place? It was the only place where I felt powerful, just like my mother. At the front of the school were students who were in their friendship groups, laughing, talking, reading, or tossing a football around. Normally at the front were the popular rich kids while the poor kids hung out at the back, doing god knows what.

I got out of Randy's Mustang and leant against the car, while I stared at the building for a while. Such a small school for all that drama, I thought to myself. Last week some creep raped a girl in my maths class, and a freshman got beat up by some hood while on school property. I think it was Tim Shepard's younger brother. Curly or something like that.

I felt Randy's stare on me and I looked at him.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," he answered. "I'm just thinking what a lucky guy I am to have such a beautiful girlfriend."

I smiled at him gratefully and kissed him.

"I've got Home Economics first. I'll see you at lunch," I smiled at him. Randy nodded and pecked my cheek before I ran off into the building. When I got to the top of the steps a familiar voice called out.

"Morning Kate!"

"Hey Ginny!" I said, turning to face the brunette cheerleader. "How are you?"

"Tired," Ginny admitted, catching up to me. "But I'll survive. I have History first period, so I reckon I'll be able to sleep there. Reynolds never checks on the students during class, so, I guess that's a bonus."

"I have Home Economics first," I said, as we walked into the building. "Jacobson's practically the same as Reynolds. She doesn't do anything, she just sits there and reads the morning paper, and so we just talk all we want, without getting in trouble."

"Lucky you," Ginny muttered enviously. "I have Clayton, do you know how annoying it is to have her? We get so much homework from her! We need to know the exact ingredients to get rid of grass stains and chocolate stains and now we're learning about marriage and _sex_!" Ginny exclaimed a bit too loudly, since a few people stopped to stare at her sudden outburst.

"Um… that's good to know, Ginny," I blushed, as I hurried towards my locker.

"Yesterday," Ginny whispered, as I gathered my books. "We had to do a quiz on… _it_. The quiz was like, have you ever done it? Who would you do it with? It was crazy!"

"Well… Did you answer it truthfully?" I asked.

Ginny shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah. But the whole test was anonymous, so it didn't really matter."

I looked down to locker 154 and smiled.

"Morning Becky!" I called merrily to the blond who was a few lockers down from mine. Becky turned around and smiled.

"Morning Katie! Morning Ginny!"

"Morning Becky!" Ginny replied, before turning to me. "I've got to go get my books. I'll see you at lunch?"

"Sure."

Ginny waved at Becky quickly before disappearing into the crowd of teenagers. I quickly locked my locker and made my way down to Becky.

Rebecca Annabelle Leeman was my first best friend, who was a girl. We've been best friends since the day I arrived in Tulsa, when I was ten. I was lucky to have her as my best friend. She was smart, really pretty, brave and a Soc. She was what some people would call the ideal American daughter. She had a nice heart shaped face with freckles lightly sprinkled over her cute nose, and her sandy blond hair was always kept up in a high ponytail, showing off her pretty face, and bright green eyes.

I quickly walked over to her locker and smiled excitedly.

"Did you hear about the party? Are you going?"

"Of course I am," Becky replied cheerfully. "David's going to pick me up at 6. Oh! And I'm going to wear that new dress I was telling you about over the phone last week. You know? It's light green with white polka dots, it's amazing!"

"I can't wait to see you in that dress," I replied. "You wouldn't shut up about it. You know, we spoke for fifteen minutes and my aunt got so annoyed at me. She ranted on about how it costs money, and how kids today are just rude. Sometimes I wish I can tell that woman it's not the 1930's anymore."

"Yeah, I got that from my mom too," Becky locked her locker and we proceeded down the hallway.

"She threatened to take away my pocket money to pay for the telephone bill. I swear, I think I'll just have to use the pay phone."

I laughed at the thought of Becky being crammed inside a telephone booth while she was wearing a circle dress.  
>"Becky, I doubt you'll be able to fit in one-"<p>

I squeaked as someone collided into me and my books fell down along with someone's science books. I opened my mouth to apologise, but my stare turned into a glare as the girl picked up her books and pencils that were scattered everywhere. In situations like this, I would've helped, but this was different. Because the girl wasn't a regular klutz, she was a _greaser_.

"Next time, watch where you're going trash!" I hissed coldly, at the girl. The girl's eyes widened at my threat and scurried off, muttering a small sorry fearfully. I rolled my eyes. Typical Greasers. They were too selfish and careless to even _think_ about having proper manners and being polite.

I picked up my books in a huff and strode off in annoyance.

See, there was only one golden rule in Tulsa, and that rule was that you had to stick to your own crowd.

Rich kids like Becky and I, hung out with other rich girls like Ginny and Bob and we were only allowed to date boys with the same social status as us, like David and Randy. We were classified as the Socials, or 'the Socs' like the East kids called us. We were rich, we had our own cars, and we were members of the local country club, living on the West side of the town. The better side of town.

Then there were the middle classers who were a total bore. Only doing co curricular activities like the school paper, softball team, diving team and Physics club. They dressed modestly, and acted modestly, only spoke to us when we addressed them. Some of them were quite decent and had awesome house parties but other than that, they were the wallflowers of our school.

And then, at the bottom, were the kids from the East.

The 'Greasers'.

The bottom of the social ladder, the white trash at our school, the bottom of the food chain, the peasants.

That was them.

They were poor, and lived on the bad side of the town, wearing leather jackets, and putting hair grease into their hair, hence their name. Greasers hated Socials and Socials hated Greasers. No one really knows why we hate each other but that's how it worked around in a town like Tulsa. The rich had the upper hand while the poor were to feed off the scraps.

I hated Greasers like everyone expected me to do because I was better than trash like them. They were worthless, dangerous people who only craved for sex and booze.

But I also secretly envied them. They were wild, carefree teenagers, who got to have fun and do whatever they wanted without getting disowned by their parents or having their privileges taken away from them. If I did something unspeakable like that trash Evie Howard does, I'd rather die than face the consequences of my guardians.

The Greasers thought we had it easy because we were rich and we got special treatment from the police and other members of society, but that was only good part of being a Social. The Greasers didn't know how tough our lives were.

We had to meet our parents' high expectations. Boys had to get good grades, get into a good college, get married to a girl with a similar social status, and become the breadwinner of their family.

But in my opinion, girls had it harder. We had to be smart, talented, pretty, social, and of course, the girl problems didn't make it any easier.

We were expected to get good grades, be able to sew, cook, clean, play bridge, gossip and play a musical instrument. Our mothers and other family members also wanted us to in DAR or the Junior League by the time we were their age. With our good grades, we were expected to go into a college, not so that we could get a decent job, but to find a suitable husband and practically become a walking and talking baby making machine.

"Kate," Becky said calmly, as she caught up to me. "You do know that was an accident. That girl didn't mean to bump into you."

"Yeah, well, she did bump into me in the end," I rebutted in a clipped tone. I continued my walk and Becky walked beside me.

"You should've at least apologised. I mean, it was also your fault for not paying attention."

I laughed humorlessly. "The day I apologise to a Greaser. I would rather die than apologise to trash like them. Besides, it's not like they're going expect one from me anyway, so why bother?"

I waited patiently for Becky to answer, but she just sighed.

"You were about to say sorry to that girl."

"Until I realised that it was her own fault," I agreed.

"You mean because she was a greaser?"

"I'm glad that you understand."

Becky opened her mouth in protest but closed her mouth quickly. She knew me better than anyone else in the world. And unlike some people, she knew when to keep her mouth shut. Especially on _that_ topic.

* * *

><p>Home economics was the most boring subject ever invented. In my opinion, it was a load of garbage. They say that women had to do the dishes and make the beds and that all women were doomed to a life of domestic maintenance. Think again people. Do you honestly think that Katharine Hepburn spends her day doing washing Spencer Tracy's socks? No. So why should I spend my day cleaning the house and cooking my husband's dinner, when I could hire a maid and go work as a nurse or become an author?<p>

But then again, the only reason all the girls looked forward for Home Economics was because it was basically a free period since our teacher, Ms Jacobson, couldn't be bothered to read boring passages to a class full of girls who didn't give a rats about how to make fried eggs and ham.

I go to the back of the classroom with Marcia Powell and Becky trailing behind me to our usual seats with other Social girls, like Nancy Atkinson and Sarah-Rose Miller.

Nancy Atkinson was what people these days would call an ideal daughter of the 50's. She was kind, polite, respectful to her elders, she wasn't a rule breaker, she was cute, and overall she got good grades.

She worked down at our church's Sunday school as an assistant, helping out the teachers and the children down there. But she wasn't exactly little miss perfect. She hated Greasers as much as every else did, which surprised most, since she was the person who usually greeted the new people to Will Rogers.

Then there was Sarah Rose. She was tall, lanky, and her frizzy hair was always kept in an unruly low ponytail. She wasn't pretty, but she also wasn't ugly.

Though she was a Soc, she dressed and acted like a middle classer. She wore boring penny loafers everyday to avoid getting an inch higher and wore flat skirts and dresses that didn't show her figure.

She wasn't into fashion or boys like any of the other Soc girls and didn't enjoy parties and dances like everyone else. Instead, she liked to spend her days writing for the school paper and reading at the library and writing stories of her own. Pretty pathetic, huh? But at least she knew the latest gossip. Perks of being in the school paper committee.

We all knew each other because our mothers, aunts, or relatives were in the Junior League and they often dragged us along so that we, as the next generation of young ladies, would learn the true meanings of what it means to be a member of the Junior League. Being in the Junior League you had to be able to gossip, pretend to be a polite and fair lady (And no one in the league is fair or just. If they were, the lower class would've been able to join), contribute in every activity (charity balls and bake sales), and having connections with someone powerful. My mother would've been a wonderful addition to the collection, but she was no lady. She was a star, and stars don't mingle with commoners.

We started to discuss about the upcoming Christmas Ball. Every year the Junior League holds an annual Christmas Party (Ball as the League members call it) as a Charity project. It's the same as every year but apparently it never gets boring. This year was my first year at attending the Christmas Ball and I was excited from the way Becky described it. We got to dress up, eat and drink for free, dance as much as we wanted to, and bid in auctions.

This year, they were going to donate the money to some poor hospital in Mexico, since a group over in Wisconsin were going to donate theirs to the starving children of Africa.

"I've already chosen my dress," Nancy announced proudly in that sweet southern accent of hers. "It cost nine dollars. I've been saving up my money to buy this dress, and in my opinion, it was worth it."

I raised an eyebrow at her.

"Why buy a dress with your own money when your mom could've bought you one?"

"I've made a deal with my parents," Nancy explained to us. "Mother and Daddy weren't all that keen when I announced that I was going to get a job. So I convinced them to let me teach at Sunday school to younger children, and in return I'll buy my own dresses and makeup and keep up my studies."

"You're a saint," Becky smiled at her. She reached over and touched Nancy hand with admiration as Nancy bloomed with pride.

"Have you guys bought your dresses yet?" Nancy asked eagerly. I smiled and shook my head.

"Nance, the Ball's in a month!" I chided playfully. Nancy rolled her eyes and giggled childishly. "But it's the event of the year! Well… excluding Prom Night."

"Don't forget Homecoming!" Marcia piped up. I clenched my jaw at the mention of Homecoming.

Because little Miss Cherry Valance won Homecoming Queen. In result, I got a nice verbal lashing from my mother over the phone telling me her boring history of winning the Miss Teenage Tulsa Beauty Pageant three times and how she got her filming career through the agents at the Pageants.

"I didn't get the title of Miss Teenage Tulsa three time in a row delivered on a silver platter, I worked my off my ass for it. We're winners, Katherine. And winners win everything, _including_ Homecoming!"

And then she hung up. No have a goodnight, or I'm proud that you were one of the nominees or even a goodbye. Just a four minute lecture and that's it.

The girls started babbling about the other perks of the Christmas Party or something like that. I drifted my eyes over the classroom until it landed on a familiar blond. My lips curved into a devious smirk, as Sandy trash Owens sat down a few desks away from mine. Time for some fun…

"You what annoys me?" I said, interrupting our conversation in a loud clear voice. "Bad taste of fashion."

The girls looked at me confusion at my sudden change of topic but murmured in agreement once they saw what I meant.

"Short skirts and cleavage revealing shirts," Nancy muttered disdainfully. "They clearly don't have any money to buy proper clothing so they just collect scraps to make 'clothes'."

I scoffed. "And did you see what that poodle skirt that trash Owens was wearing the other day? I mean, please. Who wears poodle skirts? Someone just has to say to those white trash girls 'Hell-o it's not the 50's anymore!'"

"Those poor white trash girls over in the East," Marcia tutted, shaking her head. "They just don't have any sense of fashion. I'd rather be caught dead than be wearing a short skirt."

"I second that," Sarah-Rose piped up.

"And did you hear about that girl who got raped by some thirty old dude?" I asked. "Like, sure he was some sick minded loser and all, but seriously. That Grease was just asking for it. I mean, is it just me? Or is it beyond most Greasers' mental capacity that you just don't walk in the streets at night wearing provocative clothes?"

"Yeah," Marcia said in agreement. "But why would she be up that late? I mean, especially on a school night?"

"Marcia, it's general knowledge," Nancy said, rolling her brown eyes. "She was at a party, getting boozed up and hooking up with trash like her own kind. And an education doesn't matter for…. those kind of people, because they all are just dumb hoods who are going to drop out and waste their life away."

"Gee," Becky muttered, shaking her head with a disapprovingly frown on her head. "It's kind of sad how girls our age are already wasting their life away."

"I still can't believe she couldn't even fight off that guy," Nancy sighed. "I mean, it's a human instinct to fight and yet she just did nothing."

"She probably was rip roaring drunk that her brain couldn't function properly!" I giggled. I knew that wasn't the case, but I was too shallow and prejudiced to admit the truth.

The others giggled along with me, until the brunette in front of us interrupted us.

Her faded purple shirt, showing off a fair amount of cleavage and her cheap fifty-cent makeup, alarmed the whole neighbourhood she was trash.

"Will you shut your trap?" she snapped. I raised an eyebrow at her in question. Typical Evie Howard. That girl just didn't know when to shut her mouth.

"And if I don't?" I asked coolly at her.

"I'll make sure you do," she snapped back.

"How? Telling the teachers? Because I seriously doubt that _anyone_ will listen to trash like you." I laughed sharply.

"Well then we'll make you shut up!" Another Greaser snapped.

"Well then, once you 'make me shut up', you'll have a lot of explaining to do… Hmm… let's list them. First there's Strickland, then my parents, the school governors, the police, and then the jury-"

"Leave us alone Von Walderberg," Another one scowled.

"Don't you have better things to do like drinking tea and playing croquette with your League?" The brunette sneered.

"Better drinking tea than cheap hairspray like you low trash hoods," Marcia snapped.

"Anyway," Sarah said, as she looked disdainfully at the Greasers' clothes. "Aren't you girls supposed to be sleeping at home to cure your hangover?"

"Sarah," Nancy scolded playfully. "I doubt they even have a home. They probably live in a cardboard box at the Lot."

"And we still wonder how they manage to survive living in the junkyard," I sighed. "But really. How do you manage to survive or much less go to school if your drunk parents spend all their money on liquor?"

If looks could kill, I was already a dead man. But it wasn't like they could do anything to me; one touch and they'll regret it.

I smirked at them. "Unless you want serious trouble, I suggest you resume your pathetic lives."

"Oh and try not interfere with our lives," Nancy added, in a sickeningly sweet voice. "Ta-ta!"

The Greasers glared at us one last time before furiously retreating back to whatever they were doing. We all giggled and resumed our previous conversation. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't ignore Becky's disappointed eyes that occasionally looked at me.


End file.
